I turn 47 tomorrow. The path I'm on now was never, ever one that was on my list of hopes and dreams. And yet, I'm thrilled and terrified about new possibilities for Act II.
I just celebrated jointly with the classes of 1982 and 1983 the 30th anniversary of the first graduating class of KHS. We started Kingwood High School together. It was a brilliant move on the parts of those that planned the reunion to combine our classes. There was a great turn out. So many that I didn't get to chat with many of the people on my long list. Just to see faces, hear voices of so many that I'd known during years of important milestones and growth was deeply satisfying, and oddly comforting.
I recognized mannerisms in people instantly. Whether I'd forgotten or I didn't realize I even knew that Gene Kirsch tapped me on the arm when making an important point or to punctuate a punchline was comforting. To see Shannon McElroy dancing in a group of people who were talking, not dancing made me chuckle. It also made me remember that she was leagues above the curve in 4th grade when I saw her dance for the first time. While standing in a darkened private room in a bar, I knew instantly that the woman making a crazy face at me was Lisa Menna. Lisa Menna, the friend down the street that had her life planned out at 15. Lisa Menna who could quote things I'd said and long forgotten. It was no surprise to know that her dreams were accomplished. I'd forgotten until she hugged me that Clair Jones, tiny little thing that she still is, gives BEAR hugs. Tami Hayes still has that contagious laugh. Jackie Parker can jump still easily up on a table and yell louder than the crowd. Doug Fountain still nods his head and smiles when he talks with you.
All these people.
The same age or older than our parents the last time we saw each other. Most are parents to kids themselves. We shared years that shaped us, in part, into who we are now.
Most I talked with are essentially the same
just yet older and more experienced.
I knew everything when I saw these people last. For that cock-eyed optimism, I'm grateful to many. I thank people in my past for helping me learn well. To Mr. Wells, I thank you for providing an environment of safety and order so that growth and excellence were the benchmarks. I thank Sue Francis for leading and guiding the student council to think outside of our convenient Kingwood boxes. To Anne Goetch, I say, thanks for giving me the beginnings of a thicker skin. I've discovered that thin skin tears easily. I thank those that voted for Lori, Woman of Steel. I got my first chances to be a leader because you believed in me--or really liked my slogan and hand-drawn posters.
Strangely, though, my greatest strengths were not acquired through my successes. My failures have shaped me more. I know what it's like to permanently take off a wedding ring worn for 22 years. Failure. I know what it's like to starve myself in order to gain acceptance and love. Failure. I know what it's like to turn to food for comfort and denial, to ease pain that won't go away. Failure. I know what it's like to reject a friend because I didn't agree with his lifestyle. Failure. I know what it's like to hide behind the facade of "Christianity" because I had poor self control and such insecurity. Failure. These are the short listed failures.
I'm not rejecting my successes. I, with wonder, look back and see how I was able to rise above the stigma of being obviously different with a back brace during Middle School and part of High School. I'm pleased that I have deep abiding friendships from every portion of my life. I'm proud that I published a book. I am proud that I can edge a perfectly straight line with my weed eater and change out a battery on my car. I can put together a gas grill from the box to completion. I developed and ran my own business that lives on in a different form now. My failures, though, have helped mold me into a person that can see beyond the surface. I'm grateful for a faith that helps me redeem the failures--not of my own accord. It's grace that makes redemption my reality. I'm the person that has no illusions about perfection being a viable life choice. My failures, humbling as all of them are have enhanced my ability to recognize that I have limitations. I can laugh at myself without shame. My failures have increased my capacity for loving myself and, in turn, loving others. I embrace them as much as I do the good stuff. Embracing my limitations gave me courage to return to a KHS reunion, knowing that not everyone would approve of me or even like me. There might even be a few that were glad that skinny Lori Hudgins got fat. It's true. I'm fat. And maybe I was just snooty enough to someone that my weight gain might feel like vindication to someone. I've got Bingo arms and I'm better able to say on most days, "I am enough."
I'm working in Act II to integrate the old with the new. To recognize shame and to speak truth into areas that need bolstering or tempering. I was wildly encouraged when many of my childhood friends told me there is life after divorce. Jean Mikkelson, Miss Kingwood High School herself told me, "Lori, I started over at 44 and I'm happier at this moment that I've ever been." She had no idea how much I needed to hear that.
Happy Birthday to me! With grace and a thimbleful of faith, I'll press on towards the mark. (with a lifetime supply of L'Oreal Natural Brown and a wardrobe of various sizes.)
